


sleepless (but not entirely hopeless) | tony stark

by starkau



Series: a slice of life, avengers edition [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, HI THIS IS MY SECOND POST, i can't seem to make the reader anything but an avenger, i love one man and one man only, mention of insomnia if that's an uncomfortable topic for anyone, minimal angst, my apologies but not really, reader is an avenger, still not sure how tags work, this is post age of ultron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkau/pseuds/starkau
Summary: “It’s bad this time, isn’t it?” You ask. “Worse than the Chitauri?”“Gives them a run for their money,” he mumbles. “But no. Not yet, anyway.”





	sleepless (but not entirely hopeless) | tony stark

“Good evening, Ms. Y/L/N.” 

“Hi, Jarvis.” You lean against the wall of the elevator, glancing up at the speakers in the ceiling. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you for asking. It’s an absolute delight and relief to see you. I can only imagine how much of a toll last week’s events are taking on you, and hope with all my heart you find the recovery process effective.”

“Thank you, J,” you say wistfully, looking at the ground. “It’ll take some time, but I’m getting there.”

Every time you blink, the image of an airborne Sokovia is still there behind your eyelids. You doubt it’ll be going away anytime soon, but the AI has enough on his hands already. You don’t need to burden him with tales of your hollowing lack of sleep these past few days and the throbbing ache on the back of your head from being struck especially hard there by one of Ultron’s bots.

“How is he?” Your heart asks the question before your head can give its stamp of approval.

Jarvis gives the question a couple seconds of contemplation. 

“It’s been a difficult week for Mr. Stark,” he says, and you know he can’t express emotion but you swear there’s now a touch of sadness in his voice. “He’s been doing his best. I believe your being here will change everything for the better, however.”

“I hope so.” The elevator starts to slow down, and you massage your ears to rid of the pressure. There’s a soft ding and the doors slide open. “Always a pleasure, Jarvis. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, Ms. Y/L/N. He is inside his laboratory.”

You give the ceiling of the elevator a smile of gratitude and turn to walk in the direction of the laboratory. Though beautiful no matter what time of day it is, Tony’s penthouse is eerily empty tonight, your only company being your soft footsteps against the obsidian ground. You turn your head, walking past the glass walls that give way to a spectacular view of the city that never sleeps, lights sprawling so far into the distance that you can’t see the horizon.

The only room with the lights on is that of the laboratory, which you’re not surprised at the least to see when you lay your eyes on the iridescent white walls of the room. You flick open the keypad next to it, taking a moment to remember the long code before it comes back to you and you press in 10-digit number.

There’s a pleasant click and you push the door open, only to be greeted with the deafening blast of music that you somehow couldn’t hear through the entirely soundproof glass, the familiar guitar riffs and the hard beat of the drums easing one of the many knots in your chest as you slide the door back into place and start your way across the dark flooring, looking around the place.

A time will never come when you’re not in love with this room. It’s a lab completely bombarded by everything Tony Stark, from every drawing or blueprint pinned to the walls to every unwashed mug scattered over the many desks that take up over half of the room; not to mention the speakers embedded in the walls that seem to vibrate the whole place that blast music from his carefully curated playlist. You’ve missed being in here almost as much as you’ve missed the man currently sitting with his back turned to you, feet propped up on the desk in front of him with a pen cap between his teeth, sketching something on a notepad in front of him. His head moves to the beat of the music and he doesn’t notice you at all ― not until you look at the ceiling (you’re not so sure why, Jarvis is everywhere) and open your mouth.

“J,” you call, leaning against a table behind you and folding your arms over your chest. “Pause the music for me.”

He does. You can see Tony smiling around his pen cap.

“The walls shaking to ‘Shoot to Thrill’ and the whole place smelling of stale coffee and old takeout,” you hum quietly. “It’s good to know that some things haven’t changed.” 

Tony sets his feet back on the ground and his chair creaks as he stands up. 

“It’s gonna take a lot more than a genocidal supercomputer to change AC/DC’s unwavering presence around here.” Tony walks towards you, pressing a button on the side of his glasses that melts them away behind his ears. “You know, I thought that was the case for shawarma too, but something about Sokovia wiped the taste out of my mouth. Gone. Can’t look at a pita without getting nauseous.”

“Oh, I was wrong then,” you say. “Everything’s changed. Shawarma’s the most important thing of all.”

“See, that can’t be true, because I’m almost certain the most important thing of all just walked through the doors of my lab and is standing a couple feet away from me now,” Tony says, meeting your gaze. “And she doesn’t look like shawarma.” He narrows his eyes, pausing. “To me, at least ― I could still be looking through the lens of last night’s wine.”

“No, Tony.” Your face has never been straighter. “I am not dressed like shawarma today. You’re in the clear.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “That’s a relief.”

“Although, maybe not _entirely_ in the clear,” you say immediately. “Last night’s wine, huh?”

Tony hesitates, lips parted and gears in his head turning as he tries to formulate a response. He clears his throat.

“The couple nights before that, too.”

“What?”

“Only ― ” He stands in front of you and runs his hands along your arms. “ ― just enough so I could fall asleep. To get the eyelids heavy and slow the brain down. I promise.” And he seems to regret it, based off the look in his eyes. Good. He should regret it. “It didn’t work, needless to say. My highest streak’s been 43 minutes. A blissful, dreamless, intensely pitch black 43 minutes that makes me remember why sleep’s important in the first place.”

You can’t find anything to say for a few moments, torn between scolding him for making such poor decisions and forgiving him and caving because, hell, the man wants so badly to sleep but can’t, and it breaks your fucking heart. You press your lips together and really look at him for the first time in a while; it’s hard to look any further past the effortless handsomeness he possesses, but you see the circles under his eyes, the exhaustion behind the irises, the little faults and crevices in his skin and face that he dislikes but you love. A subtle but visible patch of red blossoms under his right eye, the aftermath of a bruise; crimson scars run across his left cheek like they were drawn on with color pencil and there’s no question about the fact that Sokovia bruised him in more ways than one.

Hell, it bruised everyone in more ways than one.

You bring one hand to his shoulder, the other running over the healing cut in his cheek before coming to a rest on the side of his neck. You sigh, a forlorn, sad sound that makes Tony hate the universe a little more than he already does.

“It’s bad this time, isn’t it?” You ask. “Worse than the Chitauri?”

“Gives them a run for their money,” he mumbles. Tony lifts his arms to slide them around your waist. His fingers lace together against the small of your back. “But no. Not yet, anyway.”

“Sending a missile through an alien portal still beats an entire city of metal and rock almost falling on you?”

“That it does. Hey.” Tony’s eyes meet yours. It’s only been a few days but you’ve already forgotten how insanely brown they are. You’re convinced they hold every star in the sky. “Relax, will you? We’ve been together for about two minutes and you’re worrying again.”

“I’m always worrying,” you say. “Especially about you. Especially when you drink again. Especially when after all these years of slow and eventual self destruction you still think drowning in alcohol is a valid coping mechanism, because that would tell me that I’ve failed to drill into your head that it is most definitely not.”

Tony pauses at this, eyebrows furrowed as he watches your face, mentally filing through the pages of the dictionary of your many facial expressions until he knows exactly what this one means. You’re letting yourself hurt for him in hopes that he’ll hurt a little less. You’re wishing with all your heart that he gets one night, just one night, of sleep, and you’re blaming yourself for not being able to do more, even considering your incisive tone. 

“I’m gonna be okay, Y/N,” he breathes. “I’ll need a lot of time, but I will recover from this. I swear to you.”

“You’ll try your best,” you say, hand carding through his hair. “But there’s a very real possibility that we have to keep in mind, which is that aliens may kill you before you ever get to have a good night’s sleep for the first time since middle school.”

“Not if I can help it,” Tony answers, standing back up and letting go of you, turning to head back toward his desk. “Jarvis, start a new voice memo.”

“Recording, sir.”

“And I can help it, so I’ll start tomorrow. I’ll consult a real doctor who works in a hospital and doesn’t go by the last name ‘Banner’ or ‘Strange’. See if they can give me anything that’ll put me to sleep faster than whatever’s in that mahogany cabinet in the kitchen ― too soon?” One look at the expression on your face and he puts his hands in the air. “Sorry. Maybe I’ll get some renovation done around here, order furniture so comfortable I’ll never want to do anything but sleep again. Do you think it’d be a good idea to make a soporific playlist to listen to once in a while?”

“I do think listening to music that makes you want to kill someone all the time could be a problem, yes.”

“Hmm,” Tony murmurs, rubbing his hands together, starting to pace around the room. “Oh, oh, maybe ― a dog, I’ve heard they can be relaxing to have around. I’ll get a dog. Yeah? Clint has a lab. I like Lucky.”

“Learn to take care of yourself first, then consider bringing another living thing into your home,” you say. “Maybe a fish or two.”

“I might just get a few. I think the aesthetic of the living room would allow for a big, bitchin’ tank, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Now that I’m really thinking about it, a hefty majority of the drinks I put in my body are either caffeinated or alcoholic, neither of which do much to counter this whole insomnia thing ― so I’ll invest in those cappufrap things that taste like coffee but aren’t actually coffee. This also leads to the realization that the reason why I always have access to those drinks is because I never leave the house.”

You’re incredibly glad Jarvis will have this moment recorded for the rest of time. You can’t believe the word ‘cappufrap’ just came out of his mouth.

“I’m even starting to consider a shrink,” he says. “Suggest it two years earlier and I’d never even give it a second thought, but it’s gotta be a better way of dealing with all the flashbacks and memories than drinking and sulking. It’s also become a real possibility that I’ll internally combust in a couple decades and they’ll put the C.O.D. as ‘never talked about anything’. Jarvis, you getting all this?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve started to transcribe the words into a checklist format for your convenience as well.”

“Wonderful.” 

A moment of silence ensues, the only sound being that of Tony’s footsteps as his pacing comes to a stop next to the glass pane that stands as the only thing between him and a thousand-foot drop. You watch as he tucks his hands into his pockets, back turned to you as he looks out into the lights of the city that never sleeps. You push your hands off the table and make your way to him until you’re standing side by side, his face dimly illuminated from the glow of the night outside. 

“Maybe it’s all fantasy at this point,” he says quietly, “but I’m thinking it’s about time I prove to myself that I own those memories and not the other way around.”

You think so too.

“And I’ve got a good feeling about this time. You know why?” Tony turns his head to look at you. “Because I have you.”

The look in your eyes makes Tony think that this will all be worth it in the end if it means making you proud. His hands dust along the sides of your face, the tips of your toes bumping his as he steps in close.

“You do know,” you murmur, your voice barely over a whisper, “a few weeks from now, when I’m yelling at you for missing an appointment with your therapist, or complaining about the color of that new couch you ordered, or telling you for the fortieth time to put down the coffee, you’ll start to wish you don’t.”

The smile on your face mirrors onto his. He runs a thumb against your cheekbone, eyes softening.

“You’re right,” he replies. “I’ll say something stupid, you’ll walk out on me, and ten minutes later I’ll remember I can’t live without you and I must be crazy to push you so close to giving up on me yet again.”

“But I won’t,” you remind him. “No matter how much I should.”

“And that,” he mumbles, starting to lean in, “is what makes you even crazier than I am.”

He kisses you; as softly as if you might break, as fervently as if it’s the last time he’ll ever do it again. He tastes like coffee and home. Your hands lift to curl around his wrists, the ground disappearing beneath your feet as you cave to the familiar fire that is his touch, and it’ll never not fascinate you how damn right his lips feel fitted against your own, like that’s where they’re meant to be ― like this is where you’re meant to be. It only lasts a couple seconds, a minute at most, but you’re lightheaded in the best way when he pulls away and touches his forehead to yours. You swear you can hear his heartbeat thrumming against your skin, he’s so close, cherishing everything that is this moment.

“I love you, baby.”

You curl your hand around the nape of his neck, closing your eyes, and you truly and entirely mean every word you say next. “Love you too, Tony.”

There are a few seconds of silence, where all you can hear is your own heartbeat and his breathing, and then a wide smile spreads across Tony’s face that could light up the whole city. He lets out a gentle huff of laughter.

“Damn it,” he murmurs, lifting his head. “Stop recording, Jarv.”

You swear Jarvis almost laughs before he replies, “Yes, sir.”


End file.
